


The Visitor That Came to Stay

by owlbsurfinbird



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:56:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2127591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlbsurfinbird/pseuds/owlbsurfinbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a visitor from Tyneside...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Visitor That Came to Stay

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Skyebabycat who asked for a story about a visitor from Tyneside-Happy Birthday!

"You have—a visitor," said Laura, cryptically, ducking her head into Lewis' office. 

Robbie made his way to the reception area. There was no one there. A huge crate had been pushed to one corner. His name was on it—Detective Sergeant Robbie Lewis.

He groaned. Whoever had sent it was way behind the times. He had a sudden premonition and shuddered.

"Is that going to follow us home?" Hathaway had crept up behind him, leaning over his shoulder.

"Depends."

"Should we screen for explosives?" 

There was a seriousness in Hathaway's tone that made Robbie turn on his heel. "It's all right." He huffed a sigh. "It's just passing through."

Hathaway tilted his head, waiting.

"It's not alive." He pulled at one of the slates of the crate and was stunned when it came apart easily in his hand. "Must have—" he pulled at another one. "It hasn't been stored well." He pulled two more slats from the crate and motioned for Hathaway to take a look.

"It's an armchair. A very ugly armchair."

"Belonged to my da. It's been at Tyneside with a neighbor since Val and I moved to Oxford. Guess the man passed on."

"How is this 'just passing through'?"

"Well, it's Mark's chair. Lyn hated it."

"I hate it and we've only just met."

Lewis chuckled. "It's not a bad chair, really. Good and heavy. Solid. Seat's stuffed with horsehair."

"Sounds delightful. If I wanted to sit on a horse, I would go riding."

"What have you got against my chair? It can be cleaned." Lewis said, pulling another slate off and taking most of the side of the crate with it. "Would you look at that," he breathed.

"Oh, God," murmured Hathaway. "It's not going to Australia, is it? You want to keep it."

"I remember sitting in that chair with Lyn when she was brand new—wee little thing she was—" he bent to stare at the side. "Here's where our blasted cat scratched it all to pieces. And this," he uncrated the remaining sides to expose the back of the chair which had a crudely drawn head sketched on the back in red marker. "My boy was quite the artist."

Hathaway peered at him seriously and then at the drawing. "I can see the resemblance."

Lewis patted the top of the chair and a cloud of dust arose. "Well." He swallowed, feeling a little choked up and attributing it to the dust in the air. It was a hideous chair—outrageous swirls of yellow, olive green, and pale blue paisley. Had matched an olive green couch they had way back when. He had a picture of Val sitting in the chair, both kids sitting on her lap, held in place by the high round arms of the thing.

"Almost, but not quite retro," pronounced Jean Innocent, coming into the reception area with Laura. "When is it leaving?"

Lewis looked from Innocent, to Laura, to James. None of them seemed to understand. This was history, his history. He'd read stories to his now-grown kids sitting in that chair. Val had made curtains that matched the horrible shade of yellow—everyone looked jaundiced in their lounge room because of those bloody curtains. He cleared his throat. "I'll have it taken away."

Hathaway smiled slightly. "I'll take care of it, Robbie."

\+ + +  
Hathaway was true to his word, Lewis thought, bitterly. The chair was gone from the reception area the next morning. 

Knowing that James had a knee jerk reaction to the looks of the armchair, he couldn't very well talk it up that evening. He didn't even bother. Just another piece of his life gone. His wife, his son, even his daughter and his grandson so far away. And while he had James in his life now, would it have been so terrible to keep the damn chair? Cost a bloody fortune to ship it to Australia and like as not Mark would chuck it. 

He wondered whether James—naw, he said he'd take care of it. Probably at Oxfam right this very minute. Maybe they'd get good use out of it. Maybe they'd sit in it to read stories to their kids. 

He hadn't given it a thought for decades. 

He couldn't get it out of his mind now.

\+ + +  
A few days later:

Lewis grumbled and gave the dry cleaning bag a yank from where it had gotten caught in the car door. James had texted him with a couple of errands on his way home and, yes, it was his turn, but he didn't have to be happy about it, did he? He juggled the cleaning and the shopping, managing to get the door unlocked, when he heard a child's voice.

"Grandpa!"

He dropped the shopping bag onto the carpet and stared.

The image of his grandson was looking at him from the screen on James' laptop. 

The laptop was sitting on the chair.

His chair. Newly recovered in a lush blue fabric.

It was gorgeous.

On the floor was a pillow made from the piece of upholstery his son had drawn his portrait on. 

"Grandpa! It's a reading chair! For thinking great thoughts! Uncle James fixed it! You can read to me!"

He felt hands on his shoulders and words whispered against his ear. "Are you happy that it followed you home?"

"Aw, James." Robbie turned and hugged James. "Every day, love. Every day."


End file.
